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4.15.2011

and there is scribble everywhere. scrawled on backs of receipts and torn envelopes. on the inside of book covers and discarded note cards.

and much of it is just that: scribble.

but some of it.

well some of it, be it a word or a phrase or a thought that was nearly not mine--fills me. topples me. undoes all i ever claimed to know or be. and it is love. and i am in love. with the world and myself and all that is yet to come.

That is exactly how I feel about art. How one image, or even part of an image, can stop you in your tracks, erase every thought that was going through your mind, and change you. Maybe it isn't ACTUALLY physical, but it feels that way, deep in your core.

Meg, I have a drawer in my desk full of these little scraps. And every once in a while when I feel dried up I search through it for a spark.

Have you ever read Joan Didion's 'On Keeping a Notebook'? In it she says "So the point of my keeping a notebook has never been, nor is it now, to have an accurate factualrecord of what I have been doing or thinking. That would be a different impulse entirely, an instinct forreality which I sometimes envy but do not possess... instead I tell what some would calllies. ... I tell how it felt to me."